


The Ballad of Sherlock Holmes

by Azrael



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Sally Donovan is still a bitch, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, John Watson is a fantastic human being, Lestrade is very put upon, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock's mind is a terrible place, Sometimes Sherlock likes to fuck with people's heads just for the hell of it, Undercover as Married
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:59:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azrael/pseuds/Azrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a serial killer killing homosexual couples in gruesome fashion at a couple's retreat in the middle of nowhere and Sherlock and John need to go undercover as married to suss it all out.  At least that's what John thinks, but Sherlock has a hidden agenda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Realization

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm new to writing BBC Sherlock though some of you might know me from the Stargate Atlantis and Hawaii 5-0 fandoms although probably not. I haven't written anything in a reeeeeally long time and had thought I was pretty much done with writing my own fic and just happily devouring other people's when I was bitten by this plot bunny. 
> 
> I've happened to read various fake relationship stories across a variety of fandoms and it's a pretty awesome cliche, but here's the thing. In Sherlock fic, this kind of story is pretty much always told from John's POV. And I love that, don't get me wrong, because confused, panicky John is adorable, but Machiavellian, insecure Sherlock is a personal favorite of mine. Because we all know Sherlock is the serious kind of fucked up and loves experimenting in general and experimenting on John in particular so why wouldn't he pass a check-yes note in class this way?
> 
> This story is all written _in my head_ and should be written down in actual cyberspace soon, but I can't guarantee a posting schedule for you all. Stay tuned!
> 
> Anyway, I'm done blathering and making excuses for myself now, so c'mon baby, let's fic!
> 
> p.s. The definition for intolerable is cut and pasted directly from Webster's dictionary site.  
> p.p.s. Not beta'd, but let me know if you'd like to in the comments!

_Sherlock Holmes was in love once._

No, not exactly right. Precision is required in a conclusion. Delete.

_Once upon a time, Sherlock Holmes was in lo-_

No! Absolutely not! That is shamelessly romantic twaddle with no redeeming value whatsoever and completely irrelevant on top of it all. Delete. Delete. DELETE!

_Sherlock Holmes assumed he was in love exactly once in his past. He was mistaken. Sherlock Holmes is in love in the present and therefore is now privy to his faulty deduction based on insufficient evidence._

Yes. That deduction is precise, concise, and above all; correct. Perfect.

Unfortunately it is also completely useless because having come to such a conclusion Sherlock Holmes has absolutely no bleeding idea what to do with it. So…

Delete.

…

Delete?

…

DELETEDELETEDELETEDELETE!!!

Well, then, this is a problem.

_Fuck._


	2. Chapter 1: Scheme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to rationalize, has a brain orgasm, gives up, has a conniption fit, and then hatches a plan.

Intolerable.

Yes. That was the word. That was the lovely, hateful little word to explain the exact state of being that Sherlock was in right at this moment. He had used it before of course, but like so many things of late he was appreciating a new depth to his knowledge banks.

in•tol•er•a•ble

**adjective** \\(ˌ)in-ˈtäl-rə-bəl, -ˈtä-lə-rə-, -ˈtä-lər-bəl\

: too bad, harsh, or severe to be accepted or tolerated : not tolerable

It was intolerable that such idiocy, such _sentiment_ , could bring him so low as to be hiding in his least favorite lab at St. Bart’s looking at blank slides under a substandard microscope and trying desperately to delete the conclusions of the last day and a half. It would seem that Mycroft’s little cantrip of caring not being an advantage was completely useless in this instance. No matter how Sherlock looked at it there was no other deduction to be made. He loved John Watson with fierce, all-consuming devotion. He had Fallen for him and Returned for him. He had died, killed the devil and all his works, and then resurrected himself just to be in his presence once again. John Watson was his sun to revolve around as the Earth apparently orbited Sol. He was an atheist with an idol to worship in abject heresy and if that wasn’t a fucking tragedy of fate he didn’t know what was.

Suddenly his head snapped up, perfecting his already perfect posture as a thought occurred to him. Just because he didn’t agree or understand didn’t mean he didn’t _hear_. Sherlock always _saw_ and he always _listened_ when Mrs. Hudson and Molly and even Sally Donovan nattered on about human emotions and emotional responses even as he scoffed. According to those females there were different kinds of love. So, to posit a theory, if there are such substrata of emotion then Sherlock’s love for John might be one of those and not Love of the kind insipid popular music and children’s stories were made of. It could be a comrades-in-arms kind of loyalty or the regard of very deep friendship. Yes, that could be it. It didn’t have to be adoration and mind-stealing desire of the lustful variety. Yes, yes, that would be fine, all fine. Now how to test it?

Hm.

Sherlock placed his hands in prayer position with his fingers just touching his lips, bowed his head, closed his eyes and took a walk down a _very_ dusty corridor of his mind palace. He came to a door lacquered in a bright Chinese red, called up an image of John and reached for the doorknob. Then, with a deep breath, he walked through.

_Heat, breath, skin. So much skin. Soft and rough and smooth and scarred and beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Tanned, taut skin dewed in sweet perspiration and tight over bone and muscle, over hands that heal and kill and hold and soothe all at once and never and forever. Laughing eyes filled with warmth and affection, but not love, not yet, not ever (someday?). Smiling mouth filled with white teeth and soft words of amazement, humor, camaraderie, and gentle rebuke, but not ridicule, not spite, never, never (someday?)._

_Open, red mouth and slick tongue tangled around gasps of pleasure, prayers of benediction, and a name voiced with (please, please, please) tenderness, caring, lo-_

_(No. Too much. Hope is an ourobouros, chaos and destruction feeding on itself to sustain life and the most vicious motivator of all.)_

_Strong limbs wrapped and woven around and together in supple harmony. Hair made a shade darker by sweat curled at the crown and crafted into a halo by the backdrop of bright white sheets. Eyes hazed and feral with want and desperation (for me, yes mine, no one else) and drowning in black, black, black pupil. Familiar, careworn (so very dear) face twisted in a grimace of pleasure as he, as he (as John), as he cam-_

_(Oh!)_

Well, that answered that question.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the mess of his lap in dismay, unsure whether that experiment could be termed a success or a dismal failure. Further rumination would be required either way. In the meantime, thank heavens he had the Belstaff to wear home. He blotted away the faint dew broken out over his upper lip and turned the motion into a hand smoothed over his lapel before shooting his cuffs into perfect alignment. With a roll of his shoulders he was every inch the detached intellectual once again. His outward appearance restored, Sherlock reached for his ignored mobile and checked his text messages. There were three from Lestrade and one from John.

He selected John’s message first.

**I’m going to the shops after my shift at 4. Need anything?**

Sherlock looked at the time display and noted it was only 3:13. His fingers flew over the keys.

**Toothpaste. At least five varieties. Must be spearmint flavored. SH**

There. He had absolutely no need of toothpaste of any kind but he’d think up something to test with it. Maybe he’d repeat that experiment from a few years ago testing the corrosion of different types of car paint. Either way, it would ensure that John would be wracking his brain over what Sherlock could possibly be planning to do with that much toothpaste and therefore would be thinking of the detective as much as said detective would be thinking of him. Petty, true, but effective and had the added bonus of causing a little curl of satisfaction to nestle around Sherlock’s black little heart when he thought of how John would be so busy worrying over what Sherlock was getting up to that he’d fail to notice the checkout girl flirting with him again.

With a hum of happy pleasure he backtracked to his contacts screen and selected Lestrade’s name.

**Got a case. Serial killer. Will you come?**

**Sherlock, you’ll like this one. Check your email.**

**Damn it to hell Sherlock, will you come!**

Sherlock’s right eyebrow made an elegant curve above one glacial eye, intrigued. A serial killer, really? They certainly seemed to be thick on the ground these days didn’t they? Well, worth a look. He tapped his email icon and scrolled down to Lestrade’s missive, noting the profusion of histrionic exclamation points in the subject line.

Ten minutes later he tossed his phone back on the table and scowled at it. Honestly, a serial killer it might be but hardly a challenge. Even the crack team of idiots Lestrade was saddled with should have been able to see this one for themselves. It was probably the homosexual aspect as well as the venue for the hunting grounds that threw their puerile little minds into a tailspin. He ought to refuse to help just on principle and then suggest that Lestrade take Anderson with him to….

Wait…

Sherlock’s eyes widened fractionally in amazement at his own brilliance. Oh yes, this could work. It had everything he needed built in; a controlled environment, an excellent reason to closet himself and John in said environment with little to no outside contact, and a legitimate basis for plausible deniability should his experiment (certainly) fail. And fail it would because there was no way John; dependable, personable, straight, _normal_ John could ever love the freak. Sherlock was well aware he was reaching for the moon here, but it couldn’t be helped. He had to know for sure or it would be Victor all over again and it had been hell the first time and as he knew now it hadn’t even really been love. To have to go through that again and with _John_ he, just-

No.

Sherlock lifted his chin and shot his cuffs again and squared his shoulders. Right, there was nothing for it. It was a mad, mad, delightful scheme with almost no chance of the desired outcome actually coming to fruition, but he had to try. He had to _know._ And then once he knew, knew for sure there was no hope, he could fold it all up and put it in a box to throw behind the red door that would remain chained shut forever more and it would be done.

Mind made up and course set he sprang up from his seat and swept into his coat. It was time to stop hiding and beard the lion in his den.

It was time to go home.


	3. Chapter 2: Setup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock starts his game, Lestrade is an emotional yo-yo, and John finally finds out what the hell is going on. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorty, but the scene staging is mostly done now so the chapters should start getting a bit longer after this. Please DO feed the author! Comments make me write faster.

Sherlock exited the cab in front of 221 Baker Street and did not pause as he barreled through the door and up the seventeen dimly lit steps, though he did straighten his collar and tug on his shirt cuffs just as he reached flat B’s door. He opened it with his usual dramatic flair, spun off his coat and slipped off his scarf before practically sprinting to stand in front of John who was just removing seven tubes of toothpaste from a plastic shopping bag. Too late he remembered the state of his trousers, but at least the table hid the still damp material and Sherlock spared a millisecond of thought to be grateful he’d worn a black suit today.

“John! We have a case! You’re going to need to pack a bag, enough for two weeks just to be on the safe side. Lestrade should be here any moment now to give us the details. A serial killer John, isn’t it wonderful?! At least an eight, but maybe we’ll get lucky and this one will be especially clever. Oh, and pack a swimsuit and your grey suit. The grey is sadly the least deplorable of your choices, but we don’t have time to get you something new made up. Why are you just standing there, hurry up!”

Sherlock pivoted abruptly and sped to his bedroom, very careful to keep John from seeing the smirk on his face. True to form, the former army doctor scrambled around their kitchen table and followed him to stand in the doorway.

“Sherlock, what are you on about? I haven’t seen you in two days, no communication until you tell me to get you half of the chemist’s supply of _toothpaste_ of all mad things, and now you come barging in here babbling about a serial killer and packing a swimsuit like we’re off on holiday to Hawaii for Christ’s sake. Now slow down and tell me what’s going on.”

Sherlock turned from his perusal of his closet to find his flatmate had abandoned the doorway in favor of standing a foot and a half to the right of the bed, the _bed,_ oh dear.

_(Crowd him back, close, closer, too many clothes, pull and tear, push and bear him down, down, down, on his back, cover him up, make him mine, all mine, only mine-)_

Right. That was quite enough of that.

“Really John, keep up. There’s a serial killer and he’s killing people, which you’ve led me to believe is decidedly Not Good. So we’re going to his hunting ground undercover to investigate and lure him out in order to catch him and put an end to his nefarious deeds. I know how you like that part. You might even get to shoot somebody, won’t that be lovely? Now, move!”

He darted forward and pushed John backward towards the door with a hand on his chest _(Muscle, heat , heartbeat, yes!),_ shoved him through and then slammed the door in his face. As he turned he could hear John start to move away with a distinctly heavy tread and a not so quiet snide muttering.

“Pack for two weeks, right. Well thank God I just spend twenty quid on toothpaste or we might be in trouble. Maybe they use it as sunscreen in Fiji or wherever we’re going….”

Sherlock waited until he heard the stomping feet reach the top of the stairs and a door slam shut before letting himself snicker low and dark into his sleeve.

This could be _fun!_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A half hour later saw two largish suitcases waiting patiently by the door and a consulting detective not so patiently hovering by the windows and plucking at his violin. John was calmly sipping at a mug of tea and reading a newspaper while radiating a low amusement at Sherlock’s tense figure. In a flurry of movement, Sherlock whipped his bow up and began playing a tricky bit of Beethoven quite loudly. He watched in the window glass as John just shook his head behind his paper and tried not to smile at the tall man’s antics when he heard Lestrade’s distinctive stride on the stairs a few seconds after. Sherlock mused that he did all sorts of ridiculous and demeaning things just to make John smile and considered whether love was making him so dull that he could miss such obvious clues in himself.

There were three angry raps on the door which flew open at John’s cheerful “Come in Greg!” revealing six or so feet of rumpled, bloodshot detective inspector behind it. Sherlock played two more aggressive bars of flawless music before ending with a flourish and lowering his violin. He swept up his bow to examine the state of the rosin on it and spoke in a careless voice.

“Ah, Lestrade, about time you joined us, John and I have been packed for ages. I trust you’ve brought the files then? Oh yes, I can see by the state of your fingertips that you have. Excellent. Come along John, we should be going if we want to make our reservations before dark.”

Lestrade , who had been looking harassed and puffed up with indignation seemed to deflate in resignation and what looked suspiciously like relief tinged with gratitude. Interesting, that. It appeared Sherlock would have another favor owed to him by the Met at the end of this one. It was almost a shame to deprive himself of the satisfaction of revealing he’d solved their little mystery in ten minutes using only the attached images from the e-mail Lestrade had sent. To his phone even. A pity, but a glance at John in his peripheral vision showed the good doctor hiding a grin and a look of fond exasperation behind a hand and so it couldn’t be helped.

Lestrade wiped his own hand down his face and looked heavenward for patience.

“So I take it you’ve decided to grace us with your presence then? You know a mention of that might have been nice, professional courtesy and all that. But what am I saying, do you even know the meaning of the word courtesy Sherlock?”

Sherlock gently wiped a cloth over his violin and placed it reverently in its case.

“Of course I do, I just reject it as a completely useless endeavor. I find it saves time.”

John finally spoke for the first time since inviting Lestrade into the flat.

“As bracing as I always find your witty banter, Sherlock; would you mind letting me in on the plan for which I needed to pack a damn steamer trunk? Or even a brief outline of this case you’ve volunteered me for?”

Sherlock feigned surprise while hiding a bloom of anxiety in his chest.

“Have I not said? We’re going to go to the very relaxing little couple’s retreat the killer has been finding his victims at and lure him out. I’m afraid John that you’re just his type; fair colouring, the right age group, and a medical professional. Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s the other partner who dies horribly by torture, the blondes just get shot in the head.”

“Couple’s retreat?! A couple of what?!”

“Sherlock that is the daftest thing you’ve come up with yet!”

He waited in outward exasperation and inward trepidation while John and Lestrade shouted at him in tandem. Normal people were so predictable.

“Don’t be pedestrian, either of you. John, this killer is targeting male, blond, medical professionals in their late thirties to early forties and their same sex partners on holiday together. Lestrade, I would suggest you dye your hair and take Anderson along and do this yourself, but even I’m not that cruel. So unless either of you have a more viable suggestion I haven’t managed to think of yet, I really do recommend we get moving. Tick, tock, lives at stake, so on and so forth.”

John bristled even as Lestrade’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Yes, I bloody well do have a suggestion, you git! Why don’t _you_ take Anderson?! Maybe some alone time together would do you both good and the rest of us could get some ruddy peace at crime sce-Dear God, what am I even saying?!”

John buried his face in his hands as Lestrade reached out and gave a hearty pat to his shoulder in commiseration.

“I’ll just run down to the car and grab those files then shall I?”

John peeled a hand from his face to give a wave.

“Ta, mate.”

Sherlock reached for his coat and scarf as his blood sang in victory. There really was no better drug than winning a game of your own making.

“No need to make the return trip, John and I will come down with you. Grab the bags will you John?”

With that parting volley that left John spluttering, Sherlock sailed out the door and counted down three to one in his head. His lips stretched in a sly Cheshire grin as he called back.

“Oh, and John, don’t forget the toothpaste!”


	4. Chapter 3: Entrapment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John is still clueless, Sherlock is inconvenienced, and the experiment starts off with mixed success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I'm so sorry about not posting for forever! I'm American and have small children and the holiday season basically starts at Halloween and doesn't end until New Year's day. Plus I'm trying to sell my house, buy a new one, and move said small children hopefully in the next couple months. So I guess this is a preemptive apology as well.

Wedding Rings

A whole case stood before him of rings gleaming in platinum and gold, black and white, bejeweled and not; beautiful little circles that mark a possession of love and comfort. Neverending, whole, complete, infinity, forever; I am yours and you are mine.

Sherlock felt his head spin with the promise of it, of putting his ring on John’s finger if only for a little while. He thrilled to it in the secret spaces of his heart that it could be real, his fondest wish, realized such a short time ago. Mine, he’s mine.

His top lip curled in disgust with himself. Such utter rubbish was beneath him. His brain must have been rotting from the inside out over this. He simply needed to purchase a pair, matching for maximum effect (size eleven for himself, seven and a half for John) and be on his way to meet John and their luggage at the station to catch their train. There was no reason to be so affected by such a trivial, banal-

Ah.

He spied them sitting innocuously in their nests of white velvet. Black titanium bands set with four rows of black pavé diamonds. He can see them on their hands, ostentatious and understated at the same time. These were rings both of them could wear that would be tasteful yet attract attention as well. Perfect.

Miracle of miracles, the store had spares in various measurements in the back vault and Sherlock left the jeweler’s with the correct sizes for the both of them in less than fifteen minutes. He had to touch the trust fund he loathed to afford them, but the “case” demanded it and Mycroft could raise his eyebrows all he wanted after the experiment had run its course. He made sure to keep the receipt. It wouldn’t do to lose the thing for after the murderer was caught. He would return them as soon as they stepped off the train home.

No he wouldn’t.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rings were burning holes in Sherlock’s pockets as he sat across from John in their seats in the economy car. He bided his time, waiting until John finished a snack and was slightly slumberous. He hadn’t told John this part of the plan yet; to pose as married. It wasn’t necessary to solving the case, as none of this was, but John didn’t need to know. Fact: The killer liked to prey on committed couples. Deduction: For such a person, it didn’t get any more committed than wedding vows. The minor detail that Sherlock wanted this as a means to keep John marked as his, to prevent outside interference from interested parties and maintain his control conditions, well what John didn’t know couldn’t get Sherlock’s face rearranged.

He cleared his throat to gain John’s attention and John obligingly shook himself and turned an inquisitive gaze to Sherlock’s shadowed figure.

He reached into his right coat pocket where he’d placed John’s ring in its blue leather box and tossed it across the way to be caught by his companion. John opened the box and his eyes grew wide as his eyebrows climbed into the sky. Sherlock took his own blue box out of his left hand pocket and coolly placed the sparkling black band on his left ring finger.

It was quite possible John’s eyes grew even rounder.

“Um, Sherlock? I thought we just needed to be a couple, yes? Why are we pretending to be married?”

Sherlock sighed his most put upon sigh as the butterflies took up residence in his stomach. He picked a nonexistent piece of lint from his trousers and John’s eyes followed the movement of his fingers before snapping up to his face again. John looked uncertain, surprised, and a little overwhelmed.

“Really John, don’t be obtuse. The murderer is killing gay male couples who have been in exclusive relationships for years. We have not been in such a relationship and our unfortunate notoriety makes that common knowledge, or if not common, then easily searchable. The rings are necessary to our purpose. We eloped quite suddenly to avoid public scrutiny, but I’m told marriage is a sure sign of exclusivity and abiding affection. I’ve yet to witness it myself, but then I spend most of my time around married couples who have killed each other so my point of view may be admittedly skewed.”

John gave him a look that could only be termed sarcastic, picked his ring out of its box without further comment, and placed it on his finger. It fit perfectly. Sherlock turned to watch the scenery through the window as if he was completely unaffected and just breathed for a few seconds as his mind crackled with white noise and triumph and his fingers absently tugged at the wrist of his leather glove. 

First test stage: success.

_(Mine. A Honeymoon, perhaps Rio or Bora Bora, someplace neither of them has ever been and so can make their own together. Soft nights spent in expensive sheets. Black rings gleaming in warm sunlight. Kisses, touches limned with affection and desire and John’s golden skin shading darker by the day on white beaches. He himself pinkening and peeling to John’s laughter and good natured teasing. Stumbling together into a luxurious hotel room tipsy, desperate and in lo-)_

No. Better not to even think such things. Better not to hope. Better to be bitterly realistic.

Delete.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock was exhausted and John was not much better. The generic resort they’d finally arrived at after a three hour train ride and another half hour driving in pouring rain made him want to grit his teeth and squint his eyes in the overly bright artificial light. He kept his back ramrod straight though his muscles ached between his shoulder blades while John let his military posture droop a bit. It wouldn’t do to let his guard down now. John might have been be too tired to think ahead, but Sherlock was used to thinking through a fog of fatigue and knew he needed to keep his armor of cool demeanor in place in order to deal with John’s imminent vexation.

The cheerful young miss behind the check-in desk chirped brightly at them.

“Welcome to the White Lion Spa and Resort. May I look up your reservation, gentlemen?”

Her gold name tag read ‘Jennifer H.’ in black capital letters and Sherlock caught John’s stupor lifting a bit out of the corner of his eye. He spared some focus for this possible rival and information began to flood his brain.

She was twenty…three years old and quite attractive. Five foot four inches in height, but was wearing three inch heels to look taller and they were killing her lower back if her slightly arched posture was anything to go by. Her honey blond hair was shoulder length, the base colour was natural and matched her eyebrows, but she had added tasteful highlights at the crown to give it a sun-kissed look. Her make-up had been touched up; he could see the smudged black under the redrawn eyeliner, so he judged she was at least six hours into an eight hour shift. The benign brown suit she was wearing flattered her breasts, but couldn’t quite hide the slight sag of her lower abdomen, so she’d recently gained weight and not had time to buy a new uniform. No. Revise hypothesis. There was a slight smudge of white on her right shoulder near her collar that could only be baby sick. So hadn’t gained weight, she’d recently given birth and was trying to fit in her pre-pregnancy clothes before her body was quite ready. No wedding ring equaled no husband.

Threat assessment: high.

Sherlock stepped forward with his false smile in place. He could feel John’s attention shift to him with the movement and his smile gained a shade of reality.

“We have a reservation under Holmes-Watson, please.”

John’s flinch was glaringly obvious to him, though Jennifer H. was too far into her shift to catch it or care if she did. Her nascent interest in two obviously established yet youngish men quickly waned with the revelation of a hyphenated name and a quick glance at Sherlock’s left hand as he held his wallet and extracted his credit card and I.D. He was pleased by his success in thwarting her designs on them, but disheartened by John’s obvious discomfort at their linked last names.

Second test stage: Failure.

Jennifer H. quickly finished up their paperwork with the ease of long practice and Sherlock amended his deductions to include a minimum estimate of five years in this particular employment. She had probably been working in the White Lion since graduating from secondary school if not a year or so more; so a local. He idly considered whether the father of her child was a former schoolmate or a resort patron who abandoned her, but threw it off as idle speculation in need of more data. Regardless, he didn’t delete her existence from his hard drive even after she handed them their key cards. She would know every last detail of the workings of the White Lion. Such knowledge could prove useful.

He gave another insincere smile to Miss H. before leading John and a porter with their bags to the bank of elevators. At the threshold of their room, he left John to tip the porter and ventured alone to examine the accommodations of one of the more expensive suites available. It was a comfortable, luxurious space, albeit done up in a rather bland white and cream motif. A vase of white calla lilies sat on the glass and chrome coffee table, giving the room an overall bridal air. Yes, this would do nicely.

He felt rather than saw as John stepped in behind him and his temporary life partner froze in disbelief. After a brief pause to get over his shock, he spoke.

“Well. They weren’t exactly going for subtlety here, were they?”

Sherlock quirked a half smirk, but didn’t turn his head. No, he definitely _hadn’t_ been going for subtlety when he had let slip that this was a honeymoon trip for them when he made the reservation. He had been unusually lucky that there had been a last minute cancellation over the recent weekend. There apparently was a higher being that approved of Sherlock’s little scheme. He felt he was due a little good luck. Too bad he was fairly sure his good fortune wouldn’t hold out for a favorable outcome.

He strode farther into the room, well aware that, to John, his dark figure must look like an ink stain amongst the purity of the room’s affectations. He rather wished he had thought to change into a white shirt rather than the rich burgundy he was currently wearing. Damn, he usually wasn’t so careless with the details. He’d have to step up his timetable before this ghastly mess of emotions threatened to do permanent damage to his brain.

How inconvenient.

At that moment John chose to head toward what could only be the bedroom and Sherlock caught a faint hint of his tantalizing scent.

He froze and silently gasped.

_(Pine shaving soap and mint toothpaste, London’s smoggy rain, warm wool and laundry powder. Home. Mix it with the heavy musk of arousal, clean male sweat, semen and sex. Glory in it, roll in it, wallow in it, oh yes, please. Heaving breath intermingled in humid heat. The slick slide of flesh and muscle. Bliss, satisfaction, satiation. Moans and pleading., “Yes, Sherlock, God, more, please, Sher-“)_

“-lock!”

Sherlock snapped his head around at John’s half shout and pretended his cock wasn’t plumping slightly in his trousers, praying John was too exasperated to notice the minute strain on the closely tailored material.

John had his hands on his hips and a look of frustration on his face. Sherlock relaxed. Experiment parameters: still viable.

“Sherlock, could you wait one bloody minute to begin obsessing over the case and help me unpack the ungodly amount of stuff you saw fit we should bring?”

Ugh, boring. Still, so was the already solved case.

“Fine.”

John blinked.

“What, really?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but a sudden slice of panic cut through his chest. Out of character, damn. He’d have to find a way out of this and quickly. He couldn’t afford John to get suspicious about this part of the experiment.

“Yes John, I’m actually capable of putting away my own clothing. You’d probably muck it up anyway what with your truly unfortunate inexperience with decent attire.”

John glared.

“Oh, cheers ever so much. Uniforms aren’t exactly meant to be crumpled in the bottom of a rucksack and forgotten you know.”

Sherlock grinned. Well, if John was stupid enough to give him an opening like that…

He threw himself down on the orgy-wide sofa near the antiseptic gas fireplace and assumed his thinking pose.

“Oy! You said you’d help, you git!”

Sherlock smirked.

“Oh, but John, you’re so very militarily capable I’m sure you can handle that task yourself. Isn’t that right? Captain.”

John growled and spun on his heel. As he disappeared into the sanctuary of the bedroom once again, Sherlock heard him muttering to himself.

“Walked right into that one didn’t I? Well, he’s unpacking his own bloody, stupid toothpaste at least.”

Sherlock huffed a small laugh at John’s petulance.

Just then he realized something quite important.

John hadn’t made a single mention of the bed. How intriguing.

Now would that be because he hadn’t noticed, didn’t care, or was simply resigned and expecting of it?

Third test stage: inconclusive.

Inconvenient indeed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock was nervous. He was never nervous. However, as they made their way through a room service “last meal”, as John liked to term Sherlock’s final indulgence in food before a case, and the hour steadily ticked toward an appropriate time to bed down for the night, well.

Sherlock grew nervous.

He hated it. He hated the weakness and what it meant, because it was so very dangerous. It was a marker for something truly unfortunate.

It signified hope.

If he was strictly resigned to failure he wouldn’t be nervous and he wouldn’t have this tiny ember of blasted yearning for success.

He deliberately let his control slip over the redundant case files he was pretending to pore over and heard a quiet gasp.

“Sherlock? Did you just… _yawn?”_

John’s tone was one of abject disbelief, but his face quickly morphed into determination.

“Right. To hell with this. You haven’t officially started this case yet and the morning is certainly soon enough to be getting on with it. You’re taking a kip for a few hours and I’m completely knackered myself. That yacht masquerading as a bed in the other room is big enough for a football team, I’m sure we can make do. Up you get.”

He was using his Captain Watson voice and Sherlock hid a shiver down his spine through sheer force of will.

_(Yes, Sherlock like that. Harder, harder, fuck me harder. Come on, you can do better than that. Come on. Come on, lo-“)_

He cleared his throat and glared up at John, opened his mouth for a scathing retort, and…

Yawned.

He affected a blink as John’s brow just drew down further and his jaw turned to granite.

“Now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed in pseudo exasperation and rolled in what he knew was a graceful movement off the couch. He had certainly practiced enough as a gangly, awkward youth to pull it off with no effort. John swallowed a bit harder than usual though he didn’t lose the glare.

Sherlock felt a heat in his belly and a cold sweat upon his neck. Was that just-?

Could that have really been…attraction?

_(“Please, oh please”, “Look at you, aren’t you just gorgeous.”)_

There was that damnable hope again. Bloody intrusive that was. He was really going to have to nip that in the bud.

But, oh, wouldn’t that just be so-

No!

...No.

“Fine John, I’ll lie down for a bit on the bed. That’s the wonderful thing about the Mind Palace. It’s portable.”

He offered a saccharine half smile and turned smartly. John, the dear little bulldog, was hard on his heels.

“Sherlock! No! That’s not what I meant and you know it! Real sleep, mate, you need real sleep.”

He really loved when John called him mate; it was almost an endearment. A pity it didn’t happen more often.

He strode into the bedroom and gave a brief look at the king sized bed with its silver, silk bedding and a ridiculous mound of useless, tiny pillows. He went over and immediately tossed the abhorrent things in a corner then went over to his bag and rummaged around for a t-shirt and sleep pants.

Then he reached for the button on his shirt.

A barely there breath was drawn sharply behind him and Sherlock felt his heart leap. Then John completely ruined it by going to his own bag, pulling his own set of soft nightclothes out, and marching towards the bathroom without a second glance at Sherlock who was by now finished with his shirt placket and onto his cuffs. The leap became a sinking feeling and he once again berated himself for being ten times a fool.

Then he had a brilliant idea. John hadn’t locked the door. He changed in record time and smiled evilly to himself. He might as well take advantage of such a lovely opportunity. The nature of the scorpion and all that.

He grabbed his toiletry kit and quickly paced to the bathroom door and pushed it open with all the confidence his anticipation could muster. He flicked his gaze over a shirtless John Watson and his still quite nice muscle definition.

_(Lick, bite, bruise. Mark, mark, mark in constellations of ownership.)_

“Hey! Privacy Sherlock, you should try it! I got quite enough of this in the Army thanks!”

Sherlock cut his gaze to John and then back to his own reflection and began to brush the collected saliva off of his teeth. Really, John’s skin was just begged to be touched. Not fair.

Oh!

Oh yes, another idea. He really was a genius.

He rinsed his toothbrush, threw it down on the counter, and in one swift motion stripped off his shirt before turning on the tap again.

He watched John’s reflection from his peripheral vision and smugly noted a quick breath, two clenched fists, and a quick cut of eyes away from his slim back.

Fourth test stage: success

John threw on his shirt and started to leave the room grumbling.

“I’ll just wait my turn then. It’s not like I was here first or anything.”

As the door almost slammed shut behind his flatmate, Sherlock bent down to splash warm water on his face. Then he cut his eyes to glare into his own reflection.

“Hope is a fool’s errand, idiot. Get a hold of yourself.”

Yes. Most inconvenient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to the nature of the scorpion is taken from the fable "The frog and the scorpion"


	5. Chapter 4: Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the nothing before. First Sherlock is sneaky, then John is annoyed, and finally Sherlock is romantic. A bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Am. So. Sorry!
> 
> I have no excuse for not posting in over seven months except a case of writer's block that I decided to just ignore. I had to rewrite this chapter a dozen times before it made sense. Enjoy!
> 
> A thousand thanks to my beta reader AlamoGirl80. She is the best!

Sherlock was burning.

Oh, he had slept. John was correct; the bed was more than big enough for one fairly short man and one very thin man. By Sherlock’s estimate, they had been sleeping for almost seven hours and he had been awake for twenty minutes. That gave him about forty minutes to an hour before John’s Army-trained internal clock forced him to rise and greet the day. He himself would have to vacate the bed in half an hour just to be on the safe side, give the sheets an appropriate interval to cool, and give the illusion that he hadn’t slept as long as he had.

He didn’t want to.

He really didn’t want to.

Early in the night, John had migrated closer to Sherlock’s side of the bed. They weren’t unconsciously snuggling or spooning or something as ridiculous as that, but that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter in the slightest because John was apparently made of lit charcoal and Sherlock was deliciously warm and drowsy from his heat. Sherlock had always run cooler than average by a degree or so. Combined with his utter lack of body fat and he was rarely truly warm unless showering or trapped in the slow cooker of London in high summer. To be this comfortably cozy in bed during a frigid night in early spring without the suffocating weight of two or three blankets was unheard of for him.

So, in conclusion; Sherlock really, really, very much wanted to savor this pre-dawn lassitude and _not move,_ possibly for the rest of his life. 

However, it was imperative that he get up soon. That was because in addition to his shameless wallowing in John’s aura of comfort and security, he had been plagued by a solid twenty minutes of half-dreams and fantasies that had left him imprudently and inconveniently hard. God only knew how much longer he had been suffering the same predicament in his REM cycles, but that was irrelevant anyway. He was locked in a torture chamber he had to escape from immediately or suffer some rather dire consequences that would undoubtedly include disgust on John’s part and humiliation on Sherlock’s. He needed to move.

He still didn’t want to.

Part of it was simply the data he was gathering. John snored quietly, but only intermittently. He went long stretches just deeply breathing interspersed with quiet rumbles whenever his mouth opened a bit. He dreamed too, with small noises and muscle spasms in his shoulders. Sherlock wondered about those dreams. Was John performing surgery in his sleep? Was he talking with his hands as he very rarely did when excited? Maybe he was cleaning or handling his gun? Was he dreaming of pain or pleasure?

Was he dreaming of Sherlock?

John had also proven to be a stomach sleeper once deep slumber had taken him. That had been a revelation and had nearly caused Sherlock to hyperventilate in a most distressing and undignified manner. John had started out on his back, turned toward the center of the mattress in the first stage of sleep, and then turned completely on his stomach once his REM cycle had hit. This of course brought him less than six inches from where Sherlock had been lying stiff and mildly terrified in his thinking position on his edge of the bed before finally succumbing to his exhaustion, thus the warmth that he was now drowning in. It wasn’t just warmth though, it was scent. Specifically John’s maddening scent of tea, gun oil, mint toothpaste, slight hints of cedar that were frankly baffling, and the sleep warm traces of clean skin and fresh male sweat. Sherlock was left wondering if he had been very, very good or very, very bad in a past life to deserve this.

_(Roll those last inches and bury nose to nape. Breathe him in, memorize his sleep scent and never forget. Imprint and claim. Throw arm, hip, and leg to tangle with his body. Wake him with soft kisses to the back of his neck, make him turn his head and smile still drowsy and content. Yes, yes, so beautiful. So lovely. My love, my only. He’d look at me as if I were the whole world, as if he….)_

Sherlock closed his eyes against the useless fantasies and ruthlessly crushed the hopeless longing. Useless, empty sentiment that served no purpose; an evolutionary mistake he should not, would not fall victim to.

He gently eased himself out of bed, careful, so careful not to wake John. Once on his feet he turned his head with unerring accuracy and spied John’s laptop simply sitting on the bureau like an offering. Well, if John was going to be so blatant, who was Sherlock to turn down such an obvious invitation? He moved within snatching distance on quiet cat feet before silently slinking from the bedroom to the sitting room and flopping unceremoniously on the wide and surprisingly comfortable sofa.

Then he opened John’s laptop to see a blinking cursor in a text box and brought up the keylogger app he had created on his phone to ‘deduce’ the password.

(The keylogger program wasn’t cheating per se, it was simply expedient. He was certainly up to the task of deducing John’s passwords, but why waste the brain power? He was eminently capable of deducing a sixteen digit totally random number, of course he was. After all, nothing was really random, and John fell into patterns so unconsciously as to be laughable. But still, John was always so amazed that Sherlock could constantly crack his computer. Who was Sherlock to disappoint him? Even Sherlock got bored of deducing the same things over and over again. Really.)

Once in, he brought up ten different chess games against the computer and proceeded to play for best speed against himself. He was 5 seconds ahead of his best time on the sixth game when he heard the rustling of his ‘husband’ _(If only)_ from the depths of the bedroom. He quickly transferred the crime scene photos from his mobile to John’s laptop, flipped the hard copy case files open on the coffee table, and then sat on the floor cross legged to stare intently at them with hands pressed in position against his chin. He had just settled into this carefully constructed scene when John wandered in sleep ruffled and yawning in pajamas to stare blearily at Sherlock and then roll his eyes in disgust.

_(Stand up, walk over, kiss him, kiss him, kiss him, then turn him, press against his back and move him bodily back to the bedroom, back to bed, then lay him down and….)_

Sherlock blinked once, tapped his index fingertips together, and refocused on John’s face. John was now looking at him in slight confusion and rising irritation. Confusion? Why was John confused? Sherlock’s tableau must be scrambling John’s sleep fuzzy brain. Oh, but look, his forehead had drawn in over his eyes and now he was building up a small head of steam. Tedious.

Sensing a diatribe on ‘It’s not just transport you stupid sod!’ coming up, Sherlock spoke before his friend could.

“I slept, I woke up, I’m now working. Do shut up and get dressed as you’re undoubtedly going to need to be fed before we go down to the local police station to meet the detective inspector in charge of this case. He’s apparently a personal friend of Lestrade’s, which is why we are here in this godforsaken backwoods. Hurry up; the sooner I solve this, the sooner we can be away.”

Yes, that sounded quite good if he did say so himself; just the right amount of eagerness for the case and disgust with being away from their usual stomping grounds. But oh, there was dear John puffing up like a peacock in a snit, always amusing.

“For God’s sake Sherlock, how much did you actually sleep?”

Sherlock waved a languid hand.

“Irrelevant.”

Sherlock could almost _smell_ John’s blood beginning to boil.

“Damn it all to hell, you bloody idiot, you didn’t even sleep more than two hours did you? You were exhausted! You were _yawning!_ During a _case!_ I can’t even-“

Sherlock let the soothing rush of John’s annoyance wash over him, relaxing his tense back muscles and making him feel safe and cared for. Because John _did_ care, he cared more than anyone not in his nuclear family ever had and that was enough. It would have to be enough.

“Enough! Honestly, John the fact that I slept and ate last night should be acceptable. We have Work to do now. Please focus. If you could manage to get the hamster in your head on track again I would greatly appreciate it. We have a meeting and we need to be seen at breakfast before we go. I suppose you could make an appearance in your night clothes, but I doubt DI Morrison would appreciate it.”

“You’re a dick, you know that?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and continued to stare into the middle distance while tracking John’s angry features in his peripheral vision.

“You may have mentioned it before, but I’ve probably deleted it.”

John inhaled sharply, did a quick about face, and quick marched into the bedroom. Soon after, the door to the en suite shut quite firmly and the sounds of the shower turning on hushed into the outer room.

Sherlock leaned back, tipped his head onto the sofa, and chuckled lowly at the ceiling. He had been right.

This was _fun._

/////////////

John was significantly calmer after his morning ablutions and the elevator ride down from the top floor to the lobby was made in companionable silence. Once there, the pair strolled with studied nonchalance to the four star restaurant where breakfast was served every morning. A slim young man with black hair, green eyes and coffee colored skin was acting as mâitre de and showed them to a table by a floor to ceiling window overlooking a lake lit to golden by the early morning sunlight. The view was quite stunning, but Sherlock only cataloged it in distraction because _John Watson had just smiled his winning smile at the young mâitre de and then watched him walk away for a full three seconds._

He must be hallucinating. But no, John had that wistful ‘way too young for me’ look on his face for a split second before schooling his features to placidity and picking up a menu. Sherlock might have actually gone into shock for a few seconds, but then shook it off and opened his mouth. There was simply no way John Watson had just given a once over to an attractive, male Uni student. Delete.

“Interesting.”

Then he grabbed a menu and turned to the first page. Wait for it…

“What? What’s interesting?”

Ah, there it was. Sherlock glanced up at John’s inquisitive face wearing an anticipatory smile and felt his lips twist a bit.

“Our mâitre de is not the usual staff member in that position. He’s most likely commonly a waiter judging by the slightly greater bulge of his left bicep. He’s probably built up those muscles from carrying heavy trays incessantly. His uniform isn’t a perfect fit, the trouser legs are about a half inch too short and he didn’t quite tie his bowtie with the expertise of long practice. The waiters all wear standard ties in a half Windsor. He isn’t used to the more formal look. The jacket also isn’t his. The cuff of the right sleeve is worn a bit as if it rubbed against the greeting desk and has a line of yellow grease pencil just barely visible inside the edge from marking taken tables and then erasing the marks as the tables become free again. Looking at his hands, our temporary mâitre de is left handed; he has pencil marks on the outside of that hand from rubbing across the page as he writes. It’s a phenomenon I’m sure you are intimately aware of being left handed yourself. There is a faint imprint on the back of his right hand from a jazz club in town, it’s in the resort brochure, quite the hotspot I assume. However, he’s somewhere between 18 and 20 years of age since I can see an Intro to Philosophy textbook stashed in the cubby of his station and that’s usually a class gotten out of the way within the first two years of Uni. He’s a bit young to have developed a taste for jazz, so, why was he at the jazz club? It’s something I can’t deduce from the available data, so therefore; interesting.”

John grinned, open and delighted and leaned back in his chair.

“Brilliant, just bloody brilliant. But why do you say he couldn’t like jazz music?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“It’s not out of the realm of possibility, but statistically improbable. Most young men his age tend toward either ear shattering rock music, ear shattering electronic music, or vomit inducing rap music. I’m really just playing the numbers.”

John looked down at his menu with the left side of his smile wider than the right and giggled softly. In that moment, Sherlock wanted…something. He wasn’t sure what, but he wanted it very badly indeed. He let go of the left side of his menu and straightened his fork. The metal gleamed in the sunlight pouring in from the window and John’s eyes flicked up and then down to his menu again and his gaze sharpened slightly on the page in front of him.

“I think I’m going to indulge and have the eggs benedict.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Acceptable. I will as well.”

He closed his menu, placed it at the edge of the table to signal their readiness to order, and looked up to see John looking at him incredulously.

“First you sleep and now you’re eating?! What’s going on?”

Ah, right, shit. Tread carefully now. Wouldn’t do to taint the experiment. Plus he was starving; last night's dinner was a distant memory.

Sherlock scoffed and then went on in a low voice, conscious of their fellow diners, though there was a fairly wide space between them and the closest couples. On brilliant impulse he reached out and took John’s left hand with his right, resting his thumb on John’s ring. If he hadn’t already solved the case, he would be very concerned about tipping off a murderer through idle gossip. John went very still. He barely seemed to breathe.

“Really it’s not difficult to parse my motivations. Think! We are here on a honeymoon, not to solve a case. And while we are not huge celebrities, we are somewhat well known, so someone is bound to have recognized us. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few photos made their way into some of the more desperate tabloids. Your blog posts have made many of my casework habits known. Oh don’t look like that, it’s nothing damaging or I would have made you delete them then probably rescinded my permission to blog about me at all. Telling the public I don’t eat and rarely sleep during a case is not going to impede the Work. However, you’ve also mentioned my ‘post-case crash’, as you like to term it, when I make up for my asceticism by quote: ‘Eating the equivalent of his bodyweight in takeout and then becoming comatose for fourteen hours’ and you’ve mentioned it several times with varying turns of phrase. It’s become common knowledge. Even the most brain dead idiot could postulate from that statement that I eat and sleep regularly when I’m not working. Therefore, our bed will always have to be mussed in the mornings so the staff does not blab to the reporters and we will have to be seen at meals where I will have to eat an acceptable portion. Conclusion: I too will have the eggs benedict, a glass of orange juice, and two cups of coffee, just as you will, although you’ll most likely get tea. Problem?”

John blinked and then grinned blindly in such obvious delight that Sherlock might have lost a nanosecond or two just basking in the glow of him and so when he came to his senses he removed his hand and retreated to his side of the table. John quirked an eyebrow and opened his mouth, but he was prevented from saying anything when yet another attractive young person, female this time (and really _what_ was in the water in this area to produce such specimens, he’d have to come back and do a few tests) came to take their order and John turned that effervescent smile on her instead. The girl, her name tag said Christine, looked slightly stunned for a moment before smiling quite widely back. Sherlock nearly growled. He picked up his napkin with his left hand, making sure the light glinted off of it before placing the cloth in his lap. Christine’s smile became somewhat more professional at that. She lifted her pen.

“Good morning gentlemen, welcome to The Black Swan. Would you care to hear our specials?”

John looked the girl in the eyes and continued to smile, but it had morphed into his ‘I’m a pleasant person’ everyday smile and was no longer the incandescent silent laugh of ‘Sherlock’s being amazing again’ smile. Sherlock was quite pleased and not inclined to growl at all as he turned to look out the window in a silent demand that John deal with the boring masses. John was quite used to this and answered the waitress smoothly.

“That won’t be necessary, thanks. We’ll both have the eggs benedict, large orange juices, and he’ll have a carafe of coffee while I’d love a pot of English breakfast if you have it.”

Christine jotted a few short handed notes down and nodded, her professional smile still firmly in place.

“Very good, sir, that will be out shortly. Is there anything else I can do for you at the moment?”

Sherlock turned and fixed an analytical stare on the girl and she shifted as if she wanted to take a step back. Good.

“How was your performance at the club last night?”

“I’m sorry sir, my performance?”

“Yes. Tell me something Christine, how long have you been playing the saxophone?”

She looked quite taken aback.

“Sir?”

He rolled his eyes.

“The callused depressions on your fingers indicate someone who plays a valved instrument. Judging by the angle of wear and the fact that the four fingertips of each of your hands are affected, I surmise you play the saxophone instead of the trumpet. Now you are what? Twenty-six years old?”

The girl looked dazed.

“Um, I’ll be twenty six in three months Sir. How-”

“Yes, I thought as much. Most children begin an instrument around the age of six, though I started the violin at four myself. The calluses you have indicate many years of intense study, but you are well out of secondary school, so add approximately two decades. Now that level of dedication to your craft and you are a waitress, which tells me this is how you pay the rent while your real passion lies elsewhere. A musician of your level would definitely be involved with a performing act and there’s a quite good jazz club in town isn’t there? Our temporary mâitre de has a faded stamp from that very club that cannot be more than twenty four hours old or, one would hope, it would be completely washed off by now. So, he went to see a coworker perform last night at a jazz club and now you are here with saxophone-callused fingertips. Wasn’t a difficult connection to make. So I ask again; how was your performance last night?”

Christine looked vaguely as if someone had hit her between the eyes with a two by four.

“It…it was quite good sir. I play in a quintet and all of us including our singer were really on last night.”

“Excellent. I quite like jazz when done well. When will you be playing again?”

“Uh, we’ll be out Thursday night sir, still at The Keynote. We play there Thursday through Sunday nights, but we were just filling in last night since another band had their singer come down with laryngitis. We’re called Luna Blue. I could reserve a table for you gentlemen at the club for Thursday night if you like?”

She looked poleaxed, flattered, and uncertain in equal measure. John was smiling into his hand. Then a thought occurred to Sherlock.

“That would be acceptable. The mâitre de, what is his name?”

“Oh! That’s Jerrod sir, I’m sorry if he wasn’t satisfactory he’s not used to-“

Sherlock waved a hand.

“Yes, yes he’s usually a waiter, I know, I can tell by his sleeves.”

Christine looked very confused by this statement, but Sherlock was on a roll. John, in on the secret, was trying very hard not to laugh.

“If you find him attractive and were unsure if you should say something, then don’t be. He’s quite interested enough to take time out of studying for his philosophy exam and see you perform the night before he needed to be to work at 5:30am. If you were to proposition him I’m sure he would be amenable.”

Christine blinked twice, then tilted her head and a sly grin spread like honey over her face.

“Yes, sir, thank you for the information sir. I’ll get your order in right away.”

With that she snapped her order pad closed, spun from the table, and walked away toward the kitchen with a definite spring to her step.

“Oh my God, Sherlock Holmes is actually a closet romantic!”

At John’s gleeful words Sherlock snapped his head around and stared in wide eyed astonishment.

“Where on earth would you even get such a ridiculous notion?”

John still looked entirely too delighted.

“You! You just matched up those two people for the absolute hell of it. Sure, maybe it’s just going to be a little fling and not a grand and lifelong passion, maybe it’ll even just be one night and then awkward at work the next day, but still it was a very romantic thing to do.”

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms.

“Oh, it was not, I was simply satisfying my curiosity. Now I know what Jerry was doing at that club last night. A simple solution to solve a minor puzzle, and now that it’s done the both of them are boring again. There’s nothing romantic about it.”

John laughed.

“His name is Jerrod and your statement is true, but your logic is flawed.”

Sherlock gaped. His logic was _never_ flawed! That was the whole bloody _point!_ John continued to speak before he could even get a decent splutter out.

“You had the answer already so you didn’t need to clue her in to that boy’s interest in her. Conclusion: you are a closet romantic.”

Sherlock opened his mouth.

“It’s quite endearing really.”

Sherlock shut his mouth.

Well. John found his unconscious and useless sentiment endearing. Maybe it was best to let him believe his mawkish self delusions. It could come in handy later on. Then John ruined it by calling out in an annoying sing song.

“Ro-MAN-tic”

Sherlock huffed loudly.

“Shut up.”

Their eyes met across the white linen table cloth strewn with far too much cutlery for breakfast as a pair of swans glided on the lake out of the window and their black wedding bands winked in the morning light. As one they dissolved into laughter.

As his belly began to ache through his chuckles he mused on the fact that while romance was in general vastly overrated and specifically completely lost on him, perhaps being thought of as a secret romantic by John wasn’t so bad. Especially when it meant they could laugh like school children over an empty table while everyone else in the room looked on with indulgent smiles.

Yes. It definitely wasn’t bad at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI I'm left handed. I spent the entirety of my school career smudging homework and getting ink stains and pencil dust all over everything. I still hate to wear white. I feel John's pain.
> 
> Another fun fact: Deductions are hell to come up with, but very satisfying after the fact. I almost feel smart!


	6. Chapter 5: Redrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are introduced to the case, John is annoyed, and Sherlock has an affair with The Coat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I'm a flake with the writing and posting. News: I have a new full time job! Downside: I have a new full time job *sigh* Upside: I have a new full time job...with a lunch break :D

Sherlock loved his coat. It was warm, conspicuous when he wanted it to be, helped him blend into the shadows when he didn’t, and really did make him look cool and mysterious. But the best part, the absolute best part about his coat; it made John Watson look at him. All he had to do was shift so it swung a bit or even flared out and John’s eyes would track him like he had magnets in his eyeballs and Sherlock was the biggest iron filing on the planet. It was delicious.

Case in point; the two of them were striding into the Brookfield Village police station and Sherlock’s coat was floating behind him like the wings of a great bat. At his side, John kept giving him little glances from the corners of his eyes. Sherlock subtly basked in the attention while being careful to seem like he hadn’t even noticed. It wasn’t fooling John of course, he knew Sherlock noticed everything, but if Sherlock played it off like it was barely background noise then maybe John wouldn’t see how Sherlock had lengthened his stride by two inches just to ensure a nice dramatic swirl.

Sadly, all good things must come to an end and Sherlock’s coat had to tuck itself around his legs as the man in question stopped in front of the reception desk of the small police station. Brookfield Village had a very small police station indeed. At the top was Brookfield’s aging Police Chief, directly below him were the two Detective Inspectors, then the one Sergeant, and finally the five Constables. In addition there were three village matrons who manned the dispatch room in shifts on a twenty four hour basis. Apparently crime didn’t sleep in Brookfield Village. It was just really, really lazy.

Well, usually anyway.

“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson to see Detective Inspector Morrison please, I believe he’s expecting us.”

The slightly overweight Constable whose nametag read Jones painfully swallowed her mouthful of diet protein bar (and really who was she kidding, even an idiot could see from the smudge between her right thumb and forefinger that she had been sneaking chocolate since her shift started) and quickly greeted them.

“Oh, hello, yes, Rick told us to expect you. Go down that hall and it’s the second door on the left.”

Constable Jones then finished off that statement with a cheery smile and a little finger wave while Sherlock and John just stared at her in astonishment that they should just wander the station unescorted. God, but Sherlock missed London where everyone was suitably suspicious and were afraid to make eye contact in case someone tried to speak to them.

“Oh, well, cheers then. We’ll just…yeah.”

John sounded a bit discombobulated at the bizarre level of trust slash incompetence he was witnessing. Sherlock rolled his eyes, bit his tongue on deducing the good Constable’s sexual proclivities, and turned to stalk down the hallway. His coat happily followed along. So did John.

Sherlock halted at the door Constable Jones had indicated and John stood shoulder to shoulder facing it. After a brief pause that ended in a stifled sigh from John, the doctor leaned forward a bit and gave three sharp, businesslike knocks on the frosted glass inset of the door.

“Come on in!”

Another beat passed before John, gritting his teeth, leaned forward, opened the door, and gave a sarcastically flourishing wave communicating that Sherlock should enter first like the hugely obnoxious diva he was. Sherlock valiantly fought the upturn of his lips and strode into the Detective Inspector’s office, giving a sweeping once over to the room and filing away his deductions in less than three seconds. Yes, just as he suspected.

Dull.

It was an office very reminiscent of Lestrade’s back at the Yard, though even smaller, which Sherlock had hardly thought possible. There were the usual things; teetering stacks of files, practically obsolete computer, empty mugs hidden in every available corner, and an intimidating multi-function black telephone that the DI probably only knew two purposes of, and one of those was simply answering the bloody thing.

Oh, look! There were even the traditional pictures of a marriage so obviously on the rocks that the contemplation of it was giving Sherlock a headache from sheer boredom. No wonder Morrison and Lestrade were friends. They were practically the same person. And people called Sherlock a narcissist. Idiots.

“Oh hey, you must be Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson! Greg called ahead and told me you’d agreed to come and take a look at this case. Thanks for that, by the way, we’re quite stumped on it and could use all the help we can get. If I never see another dead tourist it’ll be too soon.”

By the time Morrison had finished his little speech, complete with giant doglike grin, he’d stood up from his creaking chair and made his way around his desk to stand in front of Sherlock and John with his hand held out obviously expecting a handshake. Sherlock didn’t take his hands out of his pockets.

John took a half step forward and clasped the DI’s hand, halting Morrison’s descent into a hesitant and awkward smile.

“Don’t mind him, Detective Inspector. He can be a right git, but he’s brilliant. We’ve learned to take the good with the eccentric. You get used to it.”

Morrison’s grin was bright once more.

“Yeah, Greg mentioned that part too. Go ahead and call me Rick. We’re not really up on the formalities around here.”

John smiled back and Sherlock bit back a nasty comment.

“Ta, mate. I’m John and this is Sherlock, then. Don’t be put off by him. He’s actually really excited to be here. Nothing like a serial killer to test his genius you know?”

Morrison and Sherlock both blinked, Morrison in uncertainty and Sherlock in surprise. John must have been annoyed with him, he was usually far better about smoothing things over when Sherlock was willfully rude or genuinely clueless about the social niceties. What on earth had he done-oh, God really? John was still irritated over the door thing? Honestly, how childish could he get?

“Really, John, all this over a door?”

“No, all this over the bloody toothpaste. The door was just a fun extra.”

Sherlock cleared his throat to hide his urge to chuckle as John wore an aggressively mild expression and DI Morrison looked between them with an air of confusion. Sherlock clapped his hands and pasted on his cheerful, normal people smile. Morrison leaned slightly back in alarm. Hm. He was obviously out of practice with the smile. He’d have to work on that.

“Yes, so, serial killer torturing and murdering gay tourists. I’ve looked over the files and decided where to start. To that end, John and I have booked the Honeymoon Suite at the White Lion and are masquerading as a newly wedded couple. You may notice that John is similar in build, complexion, age, and profession as the similar victims. It seems to not matter what I look like. Is there anything you’d like to add?”

DI Morrison…Rick…looked a little flustered.

“I’m sorry, are you telling me the two of you are using yourselves as _bait_ for a murderous crazy person?”

Sherlock smirked.

“Well, we’ll also be discreetly investigating the White Lion’s staff and regulars as well as the town’s people in our excursions as a couple. Obviously.”

John, whose attention had been wandering around the DI’s office, quickly snapped his eyes to Sherlock’s face and he hissed through his teeth.

“ _Sherlock._ Behave!”

Morrison hid a grin as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Nah, s’alright John. Greg told me to let it slide. It’s fine.”

John smiled sheepishly.

“Yeah, right, point taken. Just try not to punch him too hard when he inevitably crosses the line.”

The two men grinned at each other and alright, enough was enough.

“ _He_ is standing right here, and if you two are quite through belittling my character perhaps we could get to work?”

At his bitter statement dripping sarcasm and delivered with his frightening new ‘normal people’ smile, the other two men looked guilty and John smiled sheepishly. Again. It was getting annoying .

“Yeah, you’re right, sorry Sherlock. We’ll rein it in.”

Sherlock sniffed haughtily and favored Morrison with a piercing stare. The DI visibly attempted to keep from cringing away and Sherlock felt marginally better. Guilt was a lovely and easily manipulated emotion in the mundane masses. Also, John was looking at him with a sly humor in his eyes, which was never a bad thing.

Equanimity restored, Sherlock glided forward to look at the pictures tacked to the wall in an eerily reminiscent manner similar to his own methods. Of course, Morrison’s crime wall was far inferior in both scope and organization of links than his own efforts, but Sherlock had to give him points for trying. Very, very few points, but points just the same.

John stepped up beside him, close enough for Sherlock to feel his heat and smell his unique scent and, Dear God, please not here and now…

_(Lean over and breathe in the scent of his hair and skin. Dip down and place tongue tip to the small indent behind his ear and find out if the taste matches that glorious fragrance. Nip at the earlobe and hear his breath hitch delightfully, then a sweet, slow exhale as he tries to get himself under control. Yes, yes, that.)_

Ugh. How low was he going to sink? That one was just pathetically soppy. He tugged the right lapel of his coat into place and John just turned his head to snatch a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye. Then the blond head leaned over and he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

“Sherlock, you ok? You seem tense. What is it? What do you see?”

Sherlock gave John a side eye of his own and murmured back.

“Look at their hands. What do _you_ see?”

John leaned forward and squinted at the close up pictures of the victims’ hands. Then his eyes widened. Sherlock smiled and then turned to Morrison.

“How are these photos arranged? Chronologically?”

Morrison looked slightly exasperated.

“Yes, of course.”

John looked up at Sherlock and smiled. Sherlock smirked back. Then he turned and clasped his hands behind his back and drew himself up to his full height in lecturing mode. John looked on in admiration and indulgence. Morrison looked bewildered. God, but he loved this part.

“You have a serial killer in your little hamlet, it’s true, but the serial killer is actually a copycat. It’s brilliant really. The first murders were a hate crime. The subsequent ones are crimes of passion taking advantage of the presence of another, less clever killer who could take the fall. Look, the first two victims have their hands cuffed behind their backs and the redheaded legal aide has been beaten to death while the blond EMT was shot at point blank range between the eyes. This was either to keep him from screaming, to stop him from screaming, or was merely a point of torture for the redhead, I’ll need more data to determine motivation. The handcuffs are shiny, no scratches, brand new in fact. This was a premeditated murder born of hatred. I’d look to a close relative of the redhead, maybe a long time neighbor. That’s your starting point for those murders. ”

Sherlock spun, his faithful coat swirling dramatically and stabbed a gloved finger at the second set of crime scene photos.

“But the last five, oh no, these are definitely the work of a different killer. The second couple murdered, this was unplanned, a spur of the moment crime. The handcuffs aren’t so new, you can see the scratches around the keyhole and the shine has dulled a bit. These were used, most likely as a bondage accoutrement.”

Here Sherlock paused and assessed his audience. They were hanging on to every word, excellent.

“The blond doctor was handcuffed and shot, but the much younger brunet personal trainer was tied with his own belt, cut in over seventy places, and left to bleed out. There’s evidence that the blond struggled, so he was made to watch his lover suffer instead of the other way around. This means that for the second murder it is the blond partner who is the focus of this killer’s rage. The subsequent four murders all follow the same pattern as the second murder, not the first, but the difference is that the handcuffs are all brand new and there was again one for each victim. There are two different foci of emotion, two different emotional impetuses even, and signs that the second murder was spontaneous while all the others were meticulously planned, therefore, two different killers. It’s very simple to see if you’d just observe.”

Sherlock smiled smugly as John looked at him in awe and Morrison ran his eyes quickly over his wall.

“Holy shit!”

John broke out into a brilliant smile.

“Amazing as always Sherlock. That was just bloody spectacular.”

Sherlock tried not to preen too visibly, but he judged by John’s fond smile he didn’t succeed very well. Damn, another thing to practice. He clapped his hands and smiled insincerely at Morrison.

“Well thank you for your hospitality Morrison, but John and I must be going. All six pairs of victims had couples’ massages in the days before their deaths. John and I are scheduled from ten-thiry to eleven-thirty and then it’s to be lunch in the Black Swan followed by some window shopping in the village, where John and I will be highly visible and obviously in love.”

John was starting to get a panicky look about his eyes so Sherlock plowed on quickly.

“Then it’s back to the hotel room to muss up the sheets and do some research with the do not disturb sign out, followed by dinner and dancing on the terrace. I’m sure it sounds as dull and sickeningly sweet to the both of you as it does to me, but needs must. Come along John, we don’t want to be late.”

Morrison gave a half smile that looked a bit like someone had punched him in the stomach and he hadn’t quite gotten his breath back. John turned to Morrison with a charming blush of embarrassment staining his cheeks and looked apologetically at the stunned DI.

“Right, well, duty calls I guess. Thanks for, um, seeing us, Rick. We’ll be in touch, yeah?”

Sherlock turned and strode out the door as Morrison blinked dazedly, pointed a finger at Sherlock’s retreating back.

“Is he always so….”

As Sherlock turned the door jamb to the right and paused on his way back to reception he heard John’s awkward answer and huff of laughter.

“Yeah, he’s…well…he’s always like that.”

Sherlock moved quickly towards the front door, trying valiantly not to laugh. His coat followed after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is technically still in beta, but I'm an impatient little devil and so will edit accordingly later. AlamoGirl80 is as always a rock star. I'm just being eager.


	7. Chapter 6: Relaxation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlcok deduces, there is an erection, and John misses his moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand making up for slow posting by posting twice in ten minutes! Yay me!

Sherlock firmly believed in his assertions that the body was only transport. It was what enabled him to ignore hunger, exhaustion, and pain on command. It was a point of pride that his mind and will were so strong as to compensate as much as humanly, or perhaps inhumanly, possible for the weaknesses of his physical form. He was stronger for it and the pedantic little problems of the peasantry such as blood sugar levels and diurnal cycles were thankfully beneath him.

Every once in a while, however, he was forced to conceded that perhaps the vile masses were on to something.

Take, for instance, the idea that dispensing piping hot stones over major muscle groups for fifteen minutes and then following that ludicrousness up with a right good pummeling by a six foot four ex-uni rugby player from Manchester named Joe was a good one made no logical sense, and yet….

Oooh…hrmmmm…oh, that was quite….hmmm…

What was he on about?

Oh, who cared? He was face down on a massage table fairly oozing off the sides and listening to John slur an amusing tale from his Afghanistan days in between spine tingling-ly erotic moans that Sherlock was not storing for use in the shower later, really he wasn’t. The only saving grace was that Sherlock was too blissed out to even fantasize and so his prick was behaving itself at least. Not being a sexual exhibitionist helped as well. Joe and his co-worker, a small but frighteningly strong young woman named Angela (former uni-volleyball captain, lesbian, long term girlfriend), were very, very skilled at their chosen professions, but they were also very, very present, and Sherlock was not about to humiliate himself in that way at least. Other ways however…

“-and so of course Murray didn’t bother to check his pants the next day and so of course a scorpion had made itself nice and comfortable in there and-I’m sorry, but Sherlock, are you purring over there?”

Sherlock cut himself off mid-rumble.

“No, I am not.”

Stoic silence and very loud grins radiated from the direction of Joe and Angela while John’s charming giggle filled the warm air of the massage room. Sherlock huffed.

“Oh, shut up. At least I’m not moaning like particularly convincing prostitute.”

Joe snorted, Angela choked on a laugh, and John crowed in glee.

“Well, not right now you aren’t, no. Last night was another story. Actually Joe, watch the hands on his lumbar region. If he does moan like that here and now you and Angela will have to find yourselves somewhere else to be for a good hour or so.”

_“John!”_

At Sherlock’s scandalized hiss, the other three occupants of the room erupted into bawdy, but not unkind laughter. He could feel the blood come to the surface of the back of his neck in an embarrassing blush, damn his English skin. He was just about to offer a scathing retort when Joe did something truly miraculous to his left trapezius that he hadn’t even known was irritating him until the tightness just melted away.

And, ok, yes, that was definitely a purr. Sue him, it felt bloody amazing!

The other three chuckled at him indulgently and without malice as Joe kneaded him into a human shaped puddle on the padded table and John groaned from deep in his chest when Angela probed gently around his bullet scar. Sherlock decided right then that he would be fine staying just like this for the rest of his life, which was of course the moment Joe and Angela performed one last broad swipe down his and John’s backs and stepped away from their tables. The two masseuses picked up towels and began wiping excess oil from their hands as they made for the door. Joe let Angela leave first before turning and speaking in a low tenor.

“You gents take a minute to get yourselves together. Not too long though, we need the room back for cleaning and such before the next couple. Enjoy the rest of your day!”

Sherlock could hear him say something to Angela as the door slowly closed and they made their way down the hall, but he was honestly far too relaxed to care what they were saying and what he could deduce from it. His brain was a pleasant haze of endorphins and Jesus, but if he had known about this a decade ago he could have wasted his money on this instead of all those useless drugs. Well, he knew about it now, so that was something. Maybe on the next danger night he’d forgo pacing his room endlessly and just book a spa day instead. If nothing else, it would disconcert Mycroft enough to be worth the expense.

With some difficulty (and really he hadn’t been this uncoordinated since his last head injury) he got his rubbery arms under his chest and heaved himself to a sitting position. He looked over and caught his breath at the sinful expanse of well oiled and golden skin he could see spread out like a banquet on the other table. He quickly looked away and ruthlessly thought of the close up crime scene photos of the dead blond men’s bullet wounds until the tickle in his brain signaling an ill timed fantasy went away. He stood up, took off the small towel from around his hips, and then reached for the fluffy white robe hanging from the left peg on the wall. He turned quickly just as he finished belting it around his waist and saw John had made it up to his forearms with his head hanging down between his shoulders, a lovely red flush on his ears.

“John? Are you alright? We need to get back to the room and change for lunch. Do you need help off the table?”

“No!”

Sherlock was startled from stepping forward at John’s vehement negation of his offer of assistance. He took a closer look at John’s red ears, bowed head, and pressed down hips and came to the inevitable conclusion.

John had an erection.

John had an erection while in the same room as Sherlock.

John had been moaning in pleasure and slurring his words as he told that ridiculous story and he had _gotten hard while in the same room as Sherlock._

Oh God.

_(Stride over, lick up his spine and peel the towel away from his hips, remove robe and cover him up, alabaster over gold, and skin, skin, skin. Oh! Yes, fit snugly over the seam of his arse and push, just a little, just enough to feel it and make no mistake on what it is. Gather up his hands, palms to the backs and lace fingers together and just squeeeeze. Frot faster, faster, breath coming harder, hear him start to moan again, moan for the right reasons this time and not because-)_

Right.

Sherlock came crashing down to earth as he remembered the lovely and pixyish Angela and the way she’d been wringing obscene noises from John’s throat just as Joe had caused Sherlock to purr in that involuntary manner. Angela was no threat, she was too committed to her girlfriend and John was too much the wrong gender for there to be any cause for concern, but Sherlock felt the ugly jealousy rise just the same. It was time to focus on something else. Making John squirm was always fun.

“John, if you’re thinking of lying there until your erection fades, then please refrain from indulging. We need to be in the restaurant for the noon crowd to ensure maximum visibility and then get to the village center during the height of daytime traffic so the townspeople can see us too. I haven’t managed to deduce exactly what sector of the population our serial killer is hiding among yet.”

A lie. He was well aware of who was doing the killings. He was still ahead of the timetable though, and their presence should definitely deter any other couples from getting murdered before Sherlock was ready to end the experiment. Probably. Best keep that train of thought under wraps if it ever came up.

Sherlock grabbed the other robe from the right peg and paced over to stand next to John’s head and waggle the terrycloth at him invitingly. A baleful blue eye peeked at him from the left side of John’s red face. Sherlock looked on impassively and did not think about any…Johnness…below the neck.

“Come now John, up. I promise I won’t faint like the blushing virgin I am, by the way, decidedly not, if I happen to catch a glimpse of your impressive length. Impressive, at least, for a man of your stature of course.”

And there it was; John’s head shot up and he looked incredulously into Sherlock’s smirking face for one moment before dissolving into helpless laughter.

“Oh, you bastard! That’s it husband mine, you’re not getting a look at my impressive length, stature be-damned, until you’re willing to make it up to me.”

John followed this outrageous statement up with a grin and a lavish wink and Sherlock cleared his throat, ready to parry, when there was a discreet knock on the door before Angela poked her head in.

“I’m sorry, sirs, but we need to let the cleaners in, are you about ready then?”

John clutched his towel around his waist and levered himself into a sitting position and smiled at her winningly.

“Of course, yes, right away. Sherlock is done embarrassing me for now and I have plans to get him back later. Give us a tick and we’ll be out of your hair.”

Angela grinned.

“No need to be embarrassed about anything, sir. You wouldn’t believe some of the states people leave here in sometimes. I’m actually really glad you two are behaving yourselves considering some of the scenes I’ve walked in on after a couples’ appointment. Curl your hair it would!”

John joined Angela in a laugh while Sherlock stood feeling silly in his robe with John’s still clutched in his hand. He didn’t understand normals and their propensity to laugh like hyenas over every dubiously humorous innuendo made. It was infuriating.

Angela slid out of sight and closed the door with a hushed click as John made to hop down from his table. Sherlock held out the robe to him and refused to look away. John glared weakly, turned his back, shrugged on the robe, slid off the towel, and then tied the belt tightly with firm motions around his waist. Sherlock made no effort to seem like he hadn’t been watching the whole procedure at all and John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock just spun on a slippered heel and spoke over his shoulder.

“Your reaction was an exercise in futility by the way. Angela is a lesbian and she and her girlfriend have been together for at least six years. Besides...”

Here he turned as he grasped the door handle, opened it a crack, and offered a sly smile to a grinning John who was eyeing the slightly open door.

“You’re married to me now and I don’t share. It’s in the vows and everything.”

Sherlock was being very serious, but he watched John watching the door and coming to the wrong conclusion he wanted him to.

John heaved a dramatic sigh.

“Oh, well, fine, if it was in the vows then I suppose I’ll just have to make do with you.”

Sherlock gave an approving nod and sauntered out the doorway.

“You know, I believe you also vowed to obey.”

John gave a sharp bark of laughter.

“The hell I did! And even if I did, so did you then!”

Sherlock smirked again.

“No, I didn’t, and even if _I_ did, we all know I lie shamelessly, so it doesn’t matter anyway. You on the other hand are brave, noble, and true and all that rubbish.”

There was no physical change to John, but Sherlock could swear the barometric pressure increased slightly as he punched the up button on the elevator. John was still looking at him with fondness, but there was just a trace of…something in his eyes as he continued their playful talk.

“The stage did lose a great talent when you turned your back on it, I’ll give you that. However, I always know when you’ve been sneaking Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits without sharing them with me, so I’ll always have that, right love?”

Sherlock was about to snark back when several things happened. First, the elevator doors opened. Then John’s hand shot out and smacked Sherlock’s backside in full view of the lobby as he squeezed past Sherlock’s taller frame and into the elevator. And finally….

_(Feel the sting as his hand comes down on John’s small backside as he pounds, pounds, pounds in and out. Grab and grip with sweaty, bruising fingers that leave marks all over smooth hips that will last for endless days. Yes…)_

“Sherlock?”

Drat, he’d lost time with that one, but at least he could feel there was minimal turgidity of his length. Not enough time had passed to be truly disastrous then. He looked down to see John holding the elevator door open and watching him half curiously and half worriedly. Sherlock crowded him back with a hand on his chest and then let his hand fall to jab at the button for their floor.

Oh, his John, a conductor of light even when Sherlock didn’t need it. He did need a bit of damage control though to keep the experiment viable.

“John, you are a wonder!”

The doors closed and Sherlock reached out, clasped his hands about John’s shoulders, and brought his face down to grin maniacally into the resigned one before him.

“Domestic violence!”

John reared back and his eyes went wide.

“Wait, what?”

Sherlock shook John ever so slightly.

“There was none!”

John looked confused and, strangely, relieved.

“Right, well, good…that is good, right?”

Sherlock was practically vibrating in excitement.

“Yes! Yes, it is because these were extraordinarily successful and well adjusted couples. There were no major problems in any of these relationships and they were years long affairs filled with happiness and respect and only the petty little issues all people have. These men probably never had a disagreement more serious than whose turn it was to take out the garbage or who hadn’t been able to stick to the budget that month. They probably only had one or two real fights a year, if that. These were paragons of romantic success! They were-John are you alright?”

Sherlock completely lost his train of thought and ground to a halt because John was looking distinctly pale around the lips and his eyes had taken on a slightly shocky cast. He lifted his mildly shaking hands and gently pried Sherlock’s grip from his shoulders before taking a step back and slumping a bit in the corner.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine Sherlock, I just-“

Just then the elevator gave a melodious ding and the doors slid open to reveal a harried looking young mother and her two very excited children. All three were dressed in swimsuits and clutching towels and water wings, the smallest, a boy, also had his arms wrapped around a large beach ball that squeaked as he moved. The children piled in and their mother gave apologetic looks to the two men as they were forced out of the confines of the elevator by the obviously pool-bound family.

“I’m so sorry about that! Audrey! Olliver! That was quite rude and you know better!”

The young mother sighed in annoyance as her two offspring ignored her and began tussling over the beach ball instead. She turned to look with tired eyes at Sherlock and John and gave another half hearted apology as Audrey pushed Oliver and the little boy began to cry.

“Sorry!”

The doors slid closed once more and Sherlock and John stood slightly stunned in the blissful quiet of the hallway.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Don’t ever bring up the subject of children or I swear I’ll divorce you.”

“Yes, John.”

/////////////

The restaurant was crowded, but the noise manageable at a genteel murmur. Sherlock’s salad niçoise had been crisp and fragrant without being drowned in dressing and John’s luncheon portion of pot au feu had been succulent and satisfying. Both meals had been expertly paired by the in house sommelier with a quite more than passable Provençal red table wine that was robust enough for John while still not overpowering Sherlock’s more refined palate. All in all an excellent meal spent in good company that had seen the two friends in animated and effortless conversation while stealing bits and bobs off of each other’s plates. It had looked to the other diners exactly like two very much in love newlyweds enjoying themselves in an insulated bubble of happiness.

Sherlock was really having a lovely time. He had John’s complete and undivided attention, an interesting yet pressure free game of cat and mouse with a serial killer, and the resort was turning out to be a very relaxing place to holiday. He was definitely going to keep this place in mind the next time he or John or both of them were recovering from a stabbing.

The check had been brought by ‘their’ waitress Christine along with a complimentary slice of chocolate raspberry torte, two forks, and a very pleased smile. John had grinned and leaned in toward Sherlock over the dessert with utensil in hand.

“Looks like someone took your advice and now has a date.”

Sherlock glanced over at Christine’s retreating back and then met John’s eyes and reached for the second fork. John’s eyes widened as he watched Sherlock carve off a hefty bite of the cake and swirl it in the raspberry sauce.

“No, I think she decided not to wait that long. There’s yellow grease pencil smudges on the button of her trousers, her hair has been re-styled, the pattern of the braid is slightly different from this morning, and the fool up front is looking decidedly loopy from a good, hard orgasm. I’d say they got off together before the lunch rush in her car in the employee lot. Hopefully they avoided the cameras.”

Sherlock popped his morsel of torte into his mouth and licked the sauce off the tines as John made a choking noise at his scandalous deductions. Really, for a former soldier and a renowned ladies man, John was turning out to be very old fashioned about the subject of sex. Even now, John was staring very hard at the inoffensive piece of cake in the center of the table with high color and a very even breathing pattern. It was almost quaint how the man was so straitlaced and proper about some things and yet could kill a man in cold blood to save another he barely knew. How could Sherlock not have fallen in love with him? He was such an interesting little conundrum in a fuzzy jumper and sensible shoes carrying an illegal weapon and with the kindest eyes Sherlock had ever seen. He was beautiful and Sherlock was lost.

Ugh, what a maudlin train of thought. It was time for a subject change. He let his gaze wander the room as his hand crept forward of its own volition and stole another forkful of moist chocolate decadence and an additional dip in the red sauce. He slowly and absently dragged the fork out of his mouth to avoid missing a single crumb and hummed deep in his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed it down. He saw but didn’t observe as John nudged the little plate toward him with a hand that had no sign of a tremor whatsoever. He took another bite, gave another hum and leaned in to speak to John when he was shocked out of his lazy internal deductions by John’s warm left hand covering his own on the table. The clink of their rings was very soft and yet Sherlock heard it above the conversational drone around them.

“Sherlock, is anyone in here a murderer in disguise?”

Sherlock blinked and then took another surreptitious glance around the room.

“None of them seem to be, no.”

“Great!”

John raised his hand as Christine passed and she stopped next to him with a smile.

“Yes sir?”

John smiled back and Sherlock tried not to grind his teeth too obviously.

“Could we get a box for the cake please, love?”

Christine looked at the cake, looked at the single used fork, looked back at John, and smirked. John winked. Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

“Really John, would you mind refraining from flirting with other people on our honeymoon please?”

At Sherlock’s snarky tone and crossed arms both Christine and John blinked in surprise. Then they both looked at each other and beamed.

“Oh my God, he’s adorable.”

John nodded earnestly.

“He really is, at least right now in this moment.”

Sherlock threw up his hands in disgust.

“Christine, bring us the box please. John, stop being cryptic, it’s annoying. I’ll be in our room when you decide to speak plainly again.”

Christine discreetly slunk away and John’s eyes widened.

“Wait, no Sherlock, I didn’t mean-“

But Sherlock had already risen gracefully from his seat, buttoned his suit coat, and was stalking toward the door and didn’t catch the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is being sent to beta and will also be edited when it comes back. I apologize for the mess. I really need to learn some patience.


	8. Chapter 7: Uncontrolled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson gains a tea set, Sherlock loses his dignity, and memories are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I am being horribly eager and posting without a beta read through. AlamoGirl80 is a little under the weather though, and I feel guilty pestering her. That said; I simply can't wait to see what you all think of this chapter. I had a great time writing it and I'd love to hear what you all think. Yay for blizzards! If this awful weather keeps up, I might even get this fic finished before Spring. Oh, and there I went and jinxed myself. I'll never learn.

Sherlock slammed into the Honeymoon Suite, or at least he would have if the door wasn’t a bloody doctored monstrosity suitable for not bothering the other guests and slowly shushed shut. It was immensely unsatisfying.

He gripped his hair at the roots before ruffling it in irritation. God, what had he been thinking?! His obvious jealousy was going to taint this experiment if he didn’t do some serious quick fixing when John came barreling back looking to get to the bottom of Sherlock’s actions.

An explanation was what he needed; something plausible and related to the case. He needed to think! However, all he could see was the image of John laughing with the beautiful and promiscuous Christine at him.

John never laughed at him, not like that, not usually anyway.

It had hurt.

Sherlock growled to himself in frustration. Then he took a deep breath and pushed it down and away. It was time to get back on track. John flirted with every halfway attractive woman who crossed his path no matter their age. Lestrade loved to have John handy with child witnesses because he was so warm and charming with them. Children were immediately at ease even though John’s earlier outburst at the elevators showed that John’s interest in ankle biters was superficial at best.

Whatever; not helpful at this moment.

Christine must have retrieved a box for the cake at this point, and John would walk through the door at any second. It was imperative that Sherlock have a reason for his tantrum ready. The (doomed) experiment required it to remain viable.

Just then he caught sight of the neat stack of files sitting on the glass desk in front of one of the windows.

Yes, perfect.

The door opened and John purposefully strode in holding a Styrofoam box that he authoritatively deposited on the coffee table. Sherlock looked up from the file he was holding and then immediately began perusing the details of the fourth murder again.

“Ah, you’re back, excellent. I need you to-“

John stepped over to the desk as well and looked at the file in Sherlock’s hand before interrupting the rambling detective mid-sentence.

“Sherlock, wait just a minute. I think I need to explain what happened down there.”

Sherlock looked at him and frowned.

“Yes, we do need to discuss that. John, you really must remember what we’re doing here. The entire point is to be a committed, loving couple and you flirting with the waitress is detrimental to that fiction. If the killer was in that room to see that then we’re going to have to do some damage control on our outing to the village center.”

John was frozen with his mouth open.

“So, you just threw a wobbly in the middle of the restaurant for the sake of a murderer that probably wasn’t even there?”

Sherlock nodded distractedly while breathing an inward sigh of relief at this proof that John was buying his fib. He moved to unbutton his suit coat as he looked at the crime scene photos in his hand and missed John’s narrow eyed stare. By the time he looked up, John was smiling.

“Ok, Sherlock; lay it on me. You said something about mussing the sheets to Morrison and then going for a stroll in the village. What’s the plan?”

Sherlock smiled.

“Actually, the display in the restaurant could work to our advantage here. We can rumple the bed, making it look like rather vigorous…I believe the term is ‘make-up sex’. Then be so sickeningly attentive to each other in the village that the murderer, if aware of our fight, will assume all is well again and I’m simply a jealous personality.”

John coughed lightly. Sherlock took no notice.

“Don’t worry John, I think we can wrap this up quickly and you can go proposition Christine properly. For now, though, you’re going to have to be less flirtatious. It will look less like I’m a jealous newlywed and more like you’re a bit of a philanderer and completely ruin the ruse that we’re a happily committed couple.”

Sherlock thought John’s shoulders drooped a bit at that statement. He must have been relieved that Sherlock had a plan for the fiasco in the restaurant and the case wasn’t compromised. John was always so concerned with justice for the victims while Sherlock was primarily in it for the puzzle. Sherlock liked a happy ending as much as the next bloke, but John was incurably noble. For him, making the right people answer for their crimes was the top priority.

Look, he was even squaring his shoulders and putting on his soldier’s face now. Sherlock knew he was lucky to have such a worthy moral compass.

“Ok. Ok, Sherlock, let’s do this your way. What do you want me to do? Bounce on the bed? Moan a little next to the wall? Or maybe we should yell at each other a bit before that?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit and he cocked his head curiously. John sounded a little more annoyed than he should and his color was high as he avoided the detective’s eyes. Well, whatever was bothering him would have to wait. It was time for the next stage of the experiment.

“Well, yes, but we’re both going to have to participate in the deception you know. It would be a little suspicious if you were the only one making noises.”

Strangely, John’s posture relaxed and his annoyance seemed to melt away as a small smile appeared on his face.

“Ok then, let’s get started shall we?”

Sherlock watched John strut into the bedroom with a secretive grin on his face and felt perplexed. It was as if John was looking forward to this ruse with actual anticipation instead of dread. How bizarre.

/////////////

It felt like the flesh beneath his skin was wracked with tremors, as if his body had just experienced or was about to experience a monumental earthquake of epic proportions.

_(Oooooh, oh yes, oh Sheeerrlooock, mmmmm….)_

The blood surrounding his brain was boiling hot, it had to be. There was no other explanation for the prickles of heat washing over his scalp and making the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up. No other reason the wash of tormenting heat turned to excruciating shivers of anticipation sliding down his spine.

_(Yeah, love, oh yeah…mmm…yes, yes, like that…oh! Oh YES!...Ah! Oh! Do that AGAIN!)_

His fingers trembled in fine waves, the sensation rippling over his palms and through his wrists to ache in his forearms. The urge to reach out, to take, so ruthlessly stifled that it caused actual pain to flood and light up his entire nervous system from crown to toenails.

_(Oh God…ohgodohgodohgodohGOD!!!...Oh Sherlock, SHERLOCK!!!...oh, I’m-oh, love, I-I-I’m co-…Oh, I’m going to-going-going to COME!!! OH! AH! AH! AH! SHERLOCK!! AH, YES! OH, I’M COMING, I’M COMING, YES, YES, SHERLOCK, SHERLOCK, SHEEERRRLOOOOOCK!!!!! *SCREAM*)_

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s daze lifted just enough that he could see John’s puzzled, amused, and slightly worried eyes flickering back and forth as if checking Sherlock’s pupil sizes matched. Sherlock couldn’t really blame him; after all, this, whatever this was, certainly had the feel of a head injury. A not insignificant one either. The memories of John’s mostly one sided performance in the hotel room were very much like a sledgehammer to the head.

“Hm? Yes, what?”

John smiled wryly up at him, a twinkle in his eye and gestured at the rather tasteful window display of the decent antique shop they were standing in front of.

“I asked if you wanted to check out what they have, see if we can find a nice replacement for Mrs. Hudson’s tea set that you smashed with a hammer last week.”

Sherlock tugged up his coat collar and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he sighed impatiently.

“I’ve already explained to her that I needed to test the shatter pattern of several types of ball peen hammer on porcelain for that case with the doll collection. It was her least favorite set of the three she has and I did her a favor anyway. That was the one her husband gave her to apologize for breaking her arm in a cocaine fueled rage. She hated it.”

A passing couple stared at him in wide-eyed shock at his statement and John smiled at them awkwardly before snagging the indignant detective by the sleeve and tugging him into the relative privacy of the shop.

“Be that as it may, it was hers and you destroyed it without her permission. Therefore, you owe her a new one. Oh, look! We happen to be in a shop where finding a tea set is not out of the realm of possibility! Now stop pouting and get shopping. We’ve been wandering looking in windows for an hour and a half. I’m going to feel ridiculous if we get back to the hotel empty handed after this long away.”

Sherlock couldn’t keep a half grin from taking over his lips. His John was so charmingly bourgeoisie, so concerned with what people he needn’t care for would think of his actions. It was as endearing as it was infuriating. John really couldn’t help himself and it made Sherlock burn with anger that his friend, the most worthy man he’d ever met, would feel the eyes of judgment on his back. No matter. Sherlock could keep the peons in their place for him. John could continue to be himself and Sherlock would cut down any who dared belittle him for it before they even opened their mouths. Yes. John may never love him back, but Sherlock would never love another. If this was all he could do to show it, then that’s what he would do.

“Fine, John, let’s buy Mrs. Hudson a tea set. At least we know whatever we find couldn’t be as ghastly as that pink rose monstrosity she insists on bringing up every other morning.”

John chuckled.

“Yeah, guess not…but…we could maybe try?”

Aquamarine eyes met devilish navy and the two men smirked and turned to survey the shop. They then meandered, poking into nooks and crannies and opening cabinet doors to see what treasures might be inside.

At the end of their travels they had; a tarnished copper letter opener in the shape of a pirate’s cutlass, a quite handsome silver and onyx desk lamp that Sherlock ensured John didn’t get to see the price of, an old bobby’s helmet from the early 1900’s they were going to give to Lestrade, and both the ugliest and loveliest tea sets they could find in the shop. 

The shopkeeper, a man of about 50 who went by the name Hal, was amused enough by them to allow them to collect their loot on a corner of his counter while they debated the merits of gifting Mrs. Hudson with the graceful white and gold leaf set from the mid 1930’s or if they should see the joke through to the end and give her the truly hideous mint green, curlicue infested monstrosity covered in hand painted violets from the heyday of Queen Victoria.

In the end, the genial Hal’s patience was rewarded when they decided that they couldn’t decide and so just bought both, reasoning that whichever Mrs. Hudson liked least they could use to replace their own set Sherlock had destroyed in the porcelain based experiment before the one that saw the demise of Frank Hudson’s deplorable apology gift.

After Sherlock put an amount on his credit card that nearly had the good doctor in apoplexy, they each took a large bag of carefully wrapped antiques and left the very happy Hal behind them.

That was when Sherlock’s mind exploded anew.

As they turned right out of the shop to start the longish walk back to the resort, John very casually reached out and entwined the fingers of his left hand with Sherlock’s right.

Fireworks went off in Sherlock’s chest and he felt as if a wave of heat rolled over his body followed by a distinct shiver of chill.

Oh, God, not again!

_(John lay on his side of the bed, his back to the headboard, and patted the duvet next to his hip. Sherlock slid in next to him, prepared to catalogue John’s reactions to simulated sex with him. He knew the power of his own voice and how to wield it with precision. This phase of the experiment would net quite a lot of new data indeed._

_Then John leaned to press his shoulder to Sherlock’s, and as his scent washed over the detective’s psyche, the small doctor let out a breathless and wicked giggle._

_“Hey, I thought you wanted to go into the village. This is definitely going to delay your itinerary, love.”_

_Sherlock turned to look down at the blond head lolling against the white upholstery and chuckled darkly._

_“My itinerary will survive. Isn’t this the type of thing we’re supposed to get up to on our Honeymoon anyway?”_

_John grinned mischievously._

_“We’ll definitely ‘get up’, don’t you worry.”_

_There was a beat before both of them burst out laughing._

_“Dear lord, that was perfectly awful. Please refrain from horrible puns whilst in our bed.”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes and John barked out a quick laugh. Sherlock was just about to snark some more when John turned on his right side and his firm chest pressed against Sherlock’s left bicep, and Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise._

_“Shut up, love, and take off your clothes. I’m going to ride you into the mattress now.”_

_Sherlock stopped breathing as John lifted his own wrist to his mouth and began to make the filthiest sucking noises against the thin skin there. Heat bloomed low in his gut and he desperately thought of the last experiment involving flesh eating beetles he had performed on a mound of rotting pig flesh and the truly disgusting smell attached to it. It kept his erection at bay, but only just._

_John rolled again to his back and Sherlock’s shoulder instantly cooled unpleasantly. Then John opened slick lips against his wet wrist and moaned._

_“Uuuunnnhhh, oh God love, your mouth.”_

_Said mouth went abruptly dry and then suddenly flooded with saliva and Sherlock swallowed reflexively. Luckily, John’s eyes were closed. Unluckily he had a look of bliss on his features that had Sherlock nearly desperate to press his face to and breathe in, which didn’t even make sense in his own head._

_“John, bloody hell…”_

_Was that his voice? It was a full octave deeper and echoed in his chest like the rumble of a volcano about to erupt, which was certainly fitting as he was feeling more than a little flushed._

_John arched his neck and dragged his wrist from his lower lip, over his chin, and all the way down his throat. Sherlock gasped helplessly and devoured the sight before him._

_John tugged at the neckline of his jumper before sitting up and actually stripping the garment off. Then he ran the blunt nails of his left hand down his neck and popped the first two buttons on the checked shirt he was wearing and slid his hand over his right pectoral, the red lines on his throat looking obscene against the thick tendon there. Sherlock’s fingers twitched and he growled._

_“John…John, let me…”_

_John moaned again._

_“Yeah, yes Sherlock, go ahead, whatever you want…”_

_John let out a breathy gasp and Sherlock grit his teeth. John turned his head to the left and he let out a low noise. Sherlock couldn’t have looked away if Mycroft had burst into the room with a brass band and the Queen on his arm._

_“Oh! Oh, love, yes, just like that, oooohhhh…”_

_There were few things in the world more beautiful than the sight before him. John was shifting restlessly on the bed, wrinkling the silver duvet underneath him and a distinct bulge in the front of his jeans. Sherlock was salivating like a bitch in heat and his hands were shaking with the effort it took to keep from reaching out and ripping the rest of John’s clothes off. The tease of chest seen through those two scant buttons was a subtle torture and Sherlock would break in a heartbeat if John would open his eyes and look at him. Thank God he didn’t, it was the only safety net Sherlock’s dignity had left._

_Sherlock was breathing harshly through his nose and his voice was so deep it was practically subsonic when he hissed at the man practically masturbating next to him._

_“Yessss, John, let me see you. You are so lovely when you unravel for me. Come undone now, just a bit more and you’ll be there, won’t you?”_

_Sherlock could see John’s eyes roll under his eyelids and he couldn’t help but reach a hand out and hover it over John’s abdomen before retracting it quickly. John’s fingers were moving in circling motions under his shirt and his other hand was clenched in the silver silk of the covers next to his straining thigh._

_“Oooooh, oh yes, oh Sheeerrlooock, mmmmm….”_

_Oh, God, his name slurred in that pleasure washed tenor had Sherlock losing the battle against his cock. He got so hard, so quickly that his vision sparkled for a moment as his head spun._

_John was positively writhing now, the stuttered moans and breathy gasps issuing from his throat like a soundtrack to the really good pornography Sherlock rarely let himself enjoy. He watched John’s hips undulate, causing the tantalizing bulge to press and release against the straining zipper of the denim. Sherlock was panting uncontrollably and his heart was thundering in his ears. John was whimpering and crying out with abandon now._

_“Yeah, love, oh yeah…mmm…yes, yes, like that…oh! Oh YES!...Ah! Oh! Do that AGAIN!”_

_Sherlock’s breath whistled through his teeth._

_“John…Oh dear God, John, look at you…Now, John, do it now!”_

_John’s back arched sublimely and his mouth dropped open._

_“Oh God…ohgodohgodohgodohGOD!!!...Oh Sherlock, SHERLOCK!!!...oh, I’m-oh, love, I-I-I’m co-…Oh, I’m going to-going-going to COME!!! OH! AH! AH! AH! SHERLOCK!! AH, YES! OH, I’M COMING, I’M COMING, YES, YES, SHERLOCK, SHERLOCK, SHEEERRRLOOOOOCK!!!!!” >_

_John let out a tortured scream and jerked once like a puppet with its strings cut, his head causing a creased indent in the upholstered headboard as his head pressed back, the tendons in his neck stood out, and a wet patch blossomed across the front placket of his jeans as Sherlock looked on in stunned disbelief. Then John dropped down to the bed abruptly and his hazy navy eyes opened langorously. He turned his head and grinned at the rictus Sherlock could feel his face had turned into. Then he murmured in a slightly hoarse and definitely satisfied tone._

_“Well, that was fun and should definitely have done the trick, yeah?”_

_Then he stretched like a cat, cracked his neck, and rolled off the bed. He strolled away, humming tunelessly and sauntered into the bathroom._

_As the door snicked shut quietly behind John’s retreating back, Sherlock lifted a hand to his mouth, dug his teeth into the meat beneath his thumb, and shuddered as he came for a very long time.)_

Sherlock came back to himself and realized his pulse was beating fiercely in his wrist and fingertips. He just hoped John couldn’t feel it where their palms joined snugly. John was whistling and swinging his bag just a bit, a little smile on his face and the late afternoon sun glinting redly in his burnished hair. Sherlock loved him so hard he could barely catch a breath.

He could have wept at the futility of it all.

He didn’t.

But he didn’t delete it either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...how was it? Let me know! I'm dying for feedback.


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